


One for the Deep Roads

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, Alcohol Use TW, F/M, Gen, Tabristair - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4822076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best way to cap off a long day of fighting the worst the Blight has to offer involves a handle of Dwarven rum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One for the Deep Roads

Upon their return to camp from Orzammar, the first thing Aeron says is, “Oghren, the strongest thing you have in your bag; get it out and share it with me tonight.”

And Oghren laughs, the sound of it like the rumble of great stones falling in a cascade. “Hell, Warden—and here’s me thinking you’d never ask!”

This is how the group winds up gathered around the campfire, most of them partaking in differing amounts of the best from Oghren’s stash; the Dwarven take on rum, stored in a bottle forged to resemble one of Orzammar’s impressive statues. Only Shale and Sten pass on the offer, the former seeing no point to drinking while the latter states a preference towards keeping his mind clear in the event of any potential ambush. Zevran expresses an eagerness to try what Oghren presents, Morrigan an interest; Leliana, Wynne, and Alistair appear to accept solely on the principle of being polite.

Aeron expects the usual sting that accompanies almost all liquor, the kind that makes her cough and avoid a second round. Instead, the Dwarven rum slips down smooth, radiating warmth as it gathers in her belly. There is something familiar to the flavor that lingers on her tongue—sweet, mostly, with just a touch of spice—but its name exists just out of reach. She licks her lips when she is certain nobody is looking and it is there, too. What is it _called_?

Try as she might, Aeron can’t remember, but she certainly likes it.

“Who’s going for another round?” Oghren is rising, open bottle in hand. “Anyone?”

Leliana passes, agreeing with Sten’s concerns about remaining alert. Zevran and Morrigan go for another, though Morrigan gets a slightly smaller amount than before. Wynne is still working through her first pour, as is Alistair.

“Warden?” Oghren approaches. “How ‘bout you? Up for another?”

“After the day I’ve had, _absolutely_.” Aeron holds her cup out to him. “I hope you’ll forgive that I never want to step into the Deep Roads again until my Calling.”

He chuckles. “You’re excused. Hell, it’s not like anyone goes down there for giggles, save for maybe the Legion of the Dead and Branka. Look how that turned out.”

“How bad was it?” asks Alistair.

Oghren gives a short grunt. “You’re serious? Your princess is drinking. Can’t possibly paint a better picture for ya.”

“Not his princess,” Aeron answers, raising the cup to her lips. “His _queen_.”

The second bolt of rum goes down as smoothly as the first. Laughter from the other side of the campfire suggests she could have done with stating that a bit quieter. Next to her, Alistair coughs. He murmurs something she cannot quite make out. Oghren refills her cup without being asked.

“It wasn’t the fact that we were underground,” she says more seriously. “I got used to that pretty quickly. The spiders were awful, but…I mean, we have those on the surface. We’ve fought those before, even—” Aeron pauses to drink half the little cup, savoring the warmth. “What is that…? There’s like a… It’s a sweet flavor, but not entirely sweet? Kind of spicy, too. Like… What _is_ that—?”

“I was wondering that myself,” adds Zevran, looking into his cup. “This liquor reminds me a little of the rum they brew in Antiva, but the final taste of it is like moonshine. Something best savored slowly or in small doses, to be sure.”

“Sten—!” Aeron gestures in his direction. “Sten, you know what I’m talking about, right? You bought me a sweet roll that had it once.”

The others turn their eyes to Sten, who takes a moment to think before stating, “I believe the man who ran the stall called it…cinnamon.”

“Yes! Cinnamon! That’s—that’s what it is.” Aeron smiles a little. The warmth is spreading to the tips of her ears. “Cinnamon. It tastes a little bit like cinnamon.”

“It could be that—” Wynne lifts her cup to her nose. “—or maybe clove…”

“Probably traded with some surfacer to get it. You hardly see it in these brews otherwise,” Oghren guesses, pouring another hearty measure for himself. “Anyone else?”

“Already?” Alistair asks. “You only just offered refills a second ago!”

“And you’re still just on your first one,” Oghren points out. “It’s a drink, boy, not a crying baby. No need to nurse it!”

“Last I checked, it wasn’t a race, either,” Alistair mutters, setting his cup aside.

“The tentacles,” Aeron says suddenly. “That was the worst part.”

She becomes aware of the silence that seems to be waiting for her to continue. Instead, her mind drifts backwards. It takes no effort to call up an image of the broodmother, to describe the sound of the screeching that bounced off the walls of her lair. The smell of flesh and blood is in her nose again. Every muscle grows taut, ready to move or strike at a moment’s notice—

“Egh.”

Aeron shoots back the last half of her third helping and the mental image grows hazy. Her entire body relaxes. The phantom stench gives way to the comforting smell of the present campfire. The stars above are such a welcome sight compared to the stone ceiling of the Deep Roads. She can feel Alistair’s hand coming to rest over hers. Their gazes catch for a moment before Aeron turns away, laughing, the blush not entirely the work of the rum. He is so very, very handsome, isn’t he? Especially with the glow of the fire reflected in his eyes, like… The word slips into the fog, but she remembers a stone she found and pocketed by chance in the Deep Roads, smooth and golden yellow.

_Amber._ That’s what Oghren said it was.

Alistair nudges her gently. “You’re awfully shy all of a sudden. Something on your mind?”

Aeron feels another smile pull wide across her face. “Would you be terribly bothered if I kissed you?”

“I— Here?” Alistair looks around. “We aren’t exactly alone, you know.”

“Which is why I asked.” She starts to lift her cup to her lips. “I didn’t want to assume and—oh. I forgot it was empty.”

Oghren waves the bottle in the air, that rockslide laughter rumbling from him again as he rises. “Doesn’t have to be for long! Pass the cup around this way. I’ll take care of things.”

“Don’t you suppose she’s likely had enough?” Alistair asks.

Aeron makes a disapproving sound. “I’m not a _child_ , Alistair. I can monitor myself quite fine.”

“The lady raises a fair point,” Zevran agrees.

“That isn’t what I was implying—” Alistair starts.

“Relax,” Aeron says. “It’s okay. It’s just the day I’ve had… I’ll be happy if I remember nothing of it tomorrow.” She takes her refilled cup back from her temporary bartender. “Can this stuff do that?”

“We can certainly find out,” Oghren answers. “Anyone else?”

Zevran and Morrigan pass, the latter retreating to her tent for the night. Leliana is talking to Wynne, who has finished her first pour but passed on any refills. Oghren pours another for himself and returns to his original seat, the bottle open at his side. Sten and Shale rise to patrol the perimeter and take up the first watch. Meanwhile, Aeron sits, spiraling further down the cinnamon-flavored path of inebriation. Her face has gone completely numb or is nearly there. Her joints are wonderfully loose, her limbs like string; Aeron is aware of increasingly relying on Alistair’s presence to stay upright. (Whether or not he minds is hard to decipher.) It is increasingly hard to keep proper focus. Someone is telling a story—Zevran, perhaps, judging from the accent—and only certain words are breaking through with any clarity. She laughs at the wrong time and can only tell that much from the way the others look at her.

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m—” Aeron clears her throat. “Just something I was… Continue.”

It isn’t all awkward interruptions and loosened limbs, though, is it? _No_ , absolutely not! There is a delicious haze engulfing the details of the day, softening the edges and blurring the horror into something manageable.

It is, without question, _absolutely marvelous_. No wonder Oghren drinks so much!

Aeron giggles to herself and sips her rum. Time becomes less and less rigid. She blinks and someone else is telling a story now—Leliana, perhaps, judging from the accent. Alistair slips his arm around Aeron’s waist at some point. She shuts her eyes again; Oghren’s bellowing shakes her back awake. Aeron smiles at Alistair when he looks down at her with concern. She slips a hand behind his neck, pulls him down until their brows touch.

“We’re still not alone, you know,” Alistair tells her.

“Have I mentioned how handsome you are?” Aeron breathes. “The fire makes your eyes kind of… They glow like—”

“Oh, they glow, do they?” He laughs softly and once again, the rum plays no role in the flash of warmth in her chest.

“Shush, I’m _trying_ to—pay you a compliment.”

“I see—”

Oghren gives an annoyed grunt. “If you two are planning to get cozier than that, you might as well take it to the tent so the rest of us can keep drinking in peace.”

Aeron sits up and her head spins a little. “You know what, Oghren, y-you can just…shut up.”

And Oghren, he merely laughs, raising a refilled cup in mock toast. Aeron sets down her empty cup and notices that Alistair’s still has some rum left. Zevran begins to tell another story, something involving pirates and mistaken identities. She tries her best to follow, to laugh at all the right parts, but the mental haze makes it ever so difficult. She gives up in favor of quietly huddling against Alistair, humming the melody of some half-forgotten song under her breath as Zevran continues to make the others laugh with his antics.

This is good. This is how things should be, warm and safe and among friends; with Alistair at her side and the darkspawn as little more than some story told to misbehaving children. If only that were so! But then none of them would be here, would they? None of them would know each other. The Blight, Loghain’s betrayal, even the goddamn horrors of the Deep Roads…

“The worst part,” Aeron says to no one in particular for no reason in particular, “was definitely the tentacles.”

Oghren lets out a short grunt. “Surprised you looked long enough to decide on a worse part. Damn thing was hideous all the way around.”

“But there was just _something_ about the tentacles that just… I-I mean, it was just fucking _terrifying_!” She insists, dropping what used to be Alistair’s cup. “It was like all these…fucking _flesh roots_ on a horrible fucking… _flesh_ … _tree_ …creature. Thing. Person— _no_ —a _monster._ That’s what I meant. A fucking…f-fucking flesh _monster_ mountain made of—of-of _flesh…_ and shit.”

Across the fire, Zevran laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard her be so eloquent before.”

“No, but—wait, have any of you considered…? What do you think she even _does_ with all of those tentacles?” Aeron asks. “Wh-when not attacking, I mean? Do you think—maybe—” She sits up straight and has to wait for the world to stop spinning. “Does she use them for transportation? I mean, she didn’t chase after us, but it—what else are they there for? For… I mean, is it possible that she—that it…I mean, what else could they be for except, y’know—?”

The idea is both too horrible to think about and yet not horrible enough to keep to herself. Aeron makes a gesture, or at least _tries_ to make a gesture, so that she doesn’t have to say it out loud. Only Zevran seems to catch on to her rum-clumsy signing, and the laughter that escapes him makes him fall off of the log he shares with Leliana.

Alistair sighs heavily. “Do I want an explanation?”

Leliana looks over with concern. “I-I’m…not sure?”

“Oh, believe me. You may not want to know—” Zevran tells him. “—but for your sakes, let’s hope she’s wrong, or you Wardens will be forever busy.”

“And why is it—why did it have the—those…the—the-the _breasts_? Or—no—not—it had tits. She had them. She had so many of them. She? It? Why did it have…?” Aeron puts a hand over her eyes. She can still sort of see it through the fog, the broodmother lumbering and roaring in her lair. “It had like _eight or twelve of them_ , I swear! Twelve! Twelve sagging awful tits, complete with the—the…the _things_ on the front. Nursing things. You know—like for nursing darkspawn.”

“Nipples,” offers Zevran.

“Those! The—those—!” Aeron laughs hard enough that she to grip Alistair’s arm to avoid falling over. “I-it had— _twelve of them_ —red! Red like—like _sores_ , all of them! J-just—these _sore_ , bloody nipples on six—oh—twelve sagging tits. It was—it was just _disgusting_.”

“And yet, you insist,” Oghren grumbles.

“I’m just—I just wanted to _say_ —” Something unpleasant shifts in her stomach. She swallows. “I mean, I just—it was—oh—I mean, you have to admit that it was fucking odd, you know? All of those _breasts_? Those tentacles? What kind of arrangement—?”

Alistair clears his throat. “Aeron? Just out of curiosity, how many cups have you had while we’ve been sitting here, my love?”

Aeron pushes a burst of air between her teeth, shrugging. “Shit. Maybe a few? Two or…maybe three, I think. Three feels about right. Your cup was there, though, so…four? Three and a half? Whatever was left so—so maybe…four and a half, I think.” She grins up at him. “It’s nice, though—I feel very sort of… _loose_. Like floating, kind of. It’s really nice.”

He sighs a little, shaking his head. “What’s say we get you to bed, hm?”

Her grin grows wider. “By which you mean, perhaps—?”

“ _Actually_ to bed, like to sleep. Come on—”

“Alistair, don’t be rude! Honestly! I’m _fine—_ ”

But as he pulls her to her feet, the world grows violently unsteady. Her knees buckle. Aeron grabs him with a little scream that dissolves into laughter when the danger of falling becomes nonexistent.

“Okay,” she says between recovering breaths. “Okay, maybe you’re right—”

“The one time you admit it,” Alistair says, “and you won’t even remember.”

“What’re you talking about?” Aeron asks, trying her best to sound offended. “I admit it when you’re… I-I _do_! I do. I almost always tend to…you know—” She swallows and that feels like a mistake. “O-oh no—”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh no.” The unsteadiness is fading, but the unpleasant feeling from before is back. It’s worse. “I think I might just—” She takes a deep breath. “Hang on—”

She swallows.

It only makes the feeling worse.

“Oh no—”

A whole lot worse.

“Get her clear of the fire!” Oghren yells.

Alistair’s grip around her is tight. He half-pulls, half-drags his fellow Warden to a wider patch of grass. Aeron pulls free of his grip and tries to get further clearance. She stumbles forward, arms out for balance, but it only earns her a handful of steps before she lands hard on her hands and knees. Her stomach clenches hard, pushing bile-tainted Dwarven rum up and out of her throat. Every muscle in her body goes tight. Her fingers dig into the dirt with each heave. Her head pounds fiercely in time with her heart. She breathes in heavy gasps.

“Okay, okay, okay—I think—I-I-I think I’m just gonna—”

The smell of vomit and cinnamon is powerful enough to inspire another round of vomiting. Her stomach twists on itself. All of the warmth that went so smoothly down her throat now feels like fire on the way back up. She gasps for air, breathes out in a creaking whine. Tears blur her vision.

“I think—” Aeron coughs. Her throat feels the way scorched flesh looks, but at least her stomach feels completely empty— _settled_ , rather. “Okay—”

She falls sideways onto the grass and finds enough strength to roll over on her back, half-hoping she avoided her own vomit. Everything aches. It would be too easy to just fall asleep here and let the sun wake her.

“This is most undignified of a Warden, isn’t it?” Aeron asks hoarsely.

“We’re all allowed our share of moments.” Alistair comes into view, probably unaware of just how poorly the darkness hides his troubled expression from her. He kneels down. “Are you alright? Can you move?”

“I don’t know. My head hurts. The world isn’t spinning anymore, though. Maybe I should stay here ‘til it’s all out of my system.”

“Not the most comfortable of places, is it?” He drapes her left arm around his shoulders. “Come on, my love—”

She considers protesting, considers insisting that she can totally walk under her own power and _does not need_ to be carried, but she becomes preoccupied by how weightless he makes her feel, all bundled in his arms as she is.

Fine. Maybe just this once…

Aeron shuts her eyes and allows time to slip out of her grasp. When it comes back to her, she is alone in the tent. Her boots are off, her trousers missing, and her shirt is one of Alistair’s. It takes longer than it should to realize that her hair has been unbound from her braids. (Was this his doing or her own? How much time has passed, and what has she done in that time?) She tries to sit up on the bedroll and fails, fully dizzy and her mouth dry. The sound of the tent flap moving gives her reason to try again. It’s only Alistair, a small flask in hand—water, he tells her, with something from Wynne to minimize the hangover certain to hit her in the morning.

“How long have I been…?” Aeron gets as far as propping herself up on her elbows as he uncaps it for her. “And where are my—?”

“By your knapsack. Leliana insisted on making sure you were comfortable, then rushed me out of the tent along with Wynne,” Alistair explains.

“Perhaps to protect my precious virtue—or perhaps yours, instead.” And the thought makes her laugh more than it ever should.

“Yes, well, joke’s most firmly on them and all that, isn’t it? Seeing as they’d be a bit too late…”

The water is a welcome relief, cool and sweet in a different way from the rum. “Remind me to thank them—and to thank Wynne ‘specially for this—in case I forget.”

“Oh, I will. Trust me.” Alistair sits beside her, facing away as he dresses down. “I thought you wanted to forget today.”

“Just the Deep Roads.” Aeron recaps the flask. “Alistair, are you cross with me?”

“What?”

“Are you—?”

“No, that’s not—I heard—” She hears him toss his boots aside. He goes still. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I got drunk and then proceeded to vomit all over myself,” she says. “I’m still drunk, actually. Kind of. It’s a strange…haze. Gray area. I feel all heavy limbs and headaches and like I got stomped flat into the ground by a genlock, but that vomiting might have cleared my head a little.”

“It’s as I said earlier; we’re all allowed our moments. Tonight was one of yours. But if it helps to hear it—” He turns and bends to press a kiss to her forehead. “—I am not at all cross with you, my dear.”

And Aeron believes him. “Good—” She yawns. “Remind me to thank Oghren, too.”

“Right—” The inside of the tent goes darker as the lantern light vanishes. “That one is definitely the alcohol talking, isn’t it?”

“It’s not. He saved my life.” Silence. Aeron looks over as she feels him lie next to her and there is confusion tinged with disbelief on her lover’s face. “It’s true. He did, Alistair. He saved my life in the Deep Roads. He—” She finds the strength to turn on her side and curl up against him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you—maybe ‘cause I won’t remember or he’ll deny it later—”

“The tentacles.” Alistair runs a hand over her back, lingering where the knots are. “That’s why they were…”

Even with the details blurred by the alcohol still in her system, she remembers the mounting pressure threatening to break her wrists; the sick feeling of taut, warm flesh around her throat; the panic that rose as the air became scarce and her toes barely scraped the surface of the cave floor—

“Aeron?” Alistair’s voice is gentle. “Aeron, are you—are you _crying_ , my love?” His hand stops running over her back. “Am I hurting you—?”

“He-he was just… _there_ —!” Aeron says through sniffling. “H-he just— It was just like—he came out of _nowhere_ , just howling and swinging his axe and I—and I—all of a sudden, I could _breathe_ and I could fight and it just—I just—it just—” She presses her face to his chest. “H-he—saved my life and I—I don’t know why—”

“Hey. Hey now. Aeron—” There is the hint of laughter in Alistair’s voice. He resumes rubbing her back. “Oh, dear… Has this been on your mind all night?”

“Nuh—not—not all—just— It just hit me—” A shiver runs down her back as his fingers wind into her hair and scratch against her scalp. “Oh… Th-that’s so… That’s good—”

“Is it?”

“Mm-hm…”

It’s soothing. It is the safest she has felt in a long time. Gradually, Aeron relaxes. She hears Alistair murmur something but she cannot deduce the words. Sleep is inevitable now—and with it comes the chance for dreaming, for revisiting the horrors of the day. But perhaps the spirits of the Fade will be kinder ones tonight; perhaps the dreams that come will be of sweeter days, nothing of darkspawn or death.

Or maybe Aeron won’t remember her dreams at all. That would be just fine with her, too.


End file.
